They were a treat; a birthday surprise. Pets in a box, meant to entertain. No one could foretell the macabre events about to unfold.
African Dwarf Frogs, novelty items sold in a card store. Two trapped in a small six by six inch plastic cube with only a rock, a bamboo shoot and “live” rocks to entertain them. Live rocks, too soon the term became irony.
Hewitt and Robbie were thought to be good friends, allies, comrades in captivity. Their interaction seemed playful and reminiscent of WWF smack down. That would be World Wide Frogs, mind you. One would swat the other with tiny, webbed forefeet, even leapfrogging for one-upmanship. Robbie learned to jump breaking through the waterline and bouncing his nose off the lid, leaving behind little froggy snotty marks.
Eventually, they moved together to larger quarters, a two and a half gallon tank with more plants, a stone bridge, and Eiffel tower and more live rocks. Hewitt immediately took refuge under the bridge frequently leaving the impression he was no longer part of the tank. Smack downs became rare, but Robbie learned to sing. He sang as a zipper on a down jacket in winter. Happy at last and carefree, he spent his days jetting about the tank sometimes kissing his landlord when fresh dried bloodworms were let into the water. Friendly, joyous Robbie, swimming, floating, zenning with a content almost euphoric look on his face.
Then tragedy struck the tank. Robbie, floating at the bottom belly up. No amount of prodding could make him stir. His time was passed and now was time to arrange a burial at sea. Fortunately, it’s inexpensive, only minutes away and requires only a transfer from one tank to another. A single flush in salute and Robbie became a frog for the ages.
Back in Frog Tank Acre, Hewitt took up residence under the cosmopolitan Eiffel. He never surfaced for bloodworm, but waited for it to drop. He seemed quite pleased to be alone. No more singing, no more smack downs and especially no confining himself to a single area to avoid the happy schmuck. What happened in that tank immediately before Robbie’s untimely death? Hewitt’s behavior was simply too suspicious to believe natural causes or an accidental encounter in a tough neighborhood would explain it.
A two and a half gallon tank is too large to waste on a single amphibian, even one with a loner’s complex. Harris and Floyd came to Frog Acre and set up shop. What a couple of cards they turned out to be.
Harris was the quiet type. He enjoyed standing on plant leaves for his zen period and ate quietly as the bloodworms and food pellets gently floated around him. He seemed genuinely interested in the frog statuary surrounding the Acre and amused by their stories he heard in his head. He made friends easily. Shy by nature, there was no kissing, but he did enjoy the occasional stiff rap on the tank wall to get his daily exercise started.
Floyd took up tank climbing. Swimming to the water line, he’d use his little webbed feet, stick to the glass of the tank and move himself up above the water. That was the end of lighting the tank from inside. He would hang there for quite a long time, the assumption being he’d found a healthy hobby. Reality was much more sinister.
It was a Tuesday I came home and peered into the tank to give a quick “Howdy do, boys” and noticed Harris on the rock on his back. Floyd was above the water line so gingerly I lifted the tank lid to gently prod Harris with the end of the net, hoping he’d chosen a new zen maneuver. He did not budge. He lay, four legs in an air hop position, beyond zen to, hopefully, complete Nirvana. Scooped into the net, he was airlifted to the nearest water exchange facility and flushed back to nature, or as close as was possible given the location and circumstances.
Floyd spent most of his time as close to the waterline as possible. After the death of Harris he seemed to lose any inclination for the life of a bottom feeder. Since, by nature, that’s exactly what he was it must have been difficult for him to live this altered lifestyle.
Life in the tank went swimmingly the next two days. Hewitt had the Acre to himself with Floyd on the wall. Due to Hewitt’s predilection for hiding, the Eiffel tower was removed. He took up residence beneath the stone bridge. Lurking around the bottom of the tank no one could know what dastardly deeds he dreamed as he skimmed the gravel. How did he view his tank mate? What did he think of Floyd’s persistence in staying at the water line? Was his frustration growing?
Friday, end of the work week and start of the weekend, arriving home with that glow known only to the working drones of the world, I stopped by the tank. My glow immediately dimmed. Floyd, there, belly up at the bottom of the tank. “Nooooo!”, I cried, grabbing the sides of my head and pulling my hair in grief. In the corner lay Hewitt with an ever so subtle smirk on his face. I think it was a smirk; it was very subtle. I knew right away mouth to mouth would not revive Floyd. He was past his expiration. I sent him to join Harris.
